“Hold on!” said Carington. “Take one of our men; Mr. Ellett isn’t going to fish to-day.” Then his face lit up with a quick look of merriment. “What fun! I’ll go myself!”
“You wouldn’t do that? I wouldn’t do that!” said a voice from the tent. Now, opposition was to this young man like fuel to fire.
“Why not?” he said.
“Might be awkward.”
“Oh, you be hanged! Look here, my man, what’s your name?”
“Polycarp.”
“Well, you antique saint, I mean to go down with you and pole for your Mr.—what’s his name? oh, Lyndsay, is it? I can pole. Don’t be afraid. Here’s a dollar if you don’t let on,—tell, I mean.”
The Indian grinned.
“This is a spree, Polyglot—Poly-carp—Poly-salmon, or whatever your multitudinous fishy name is. Do you know what a spree is?”
“Plenty heap whisky,” said the Indian.